


May, 1993

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mild Alcohol Abuse, Time Traveller's Wife au, very mild implied violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time Traveller’s Wife AU where Grantaire suffers from a rare condition that causes him to involuntarily travel through time, and Enjolras is a politically charged beacon that Grantaire repeatedly finds himself drawn to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May, 1993

_May, 1993 (Enjolras is 17, Grantaire is 31)_  


Grantaire materialised in the woods. His feet suddenly thrust into the warm crumbly earth, shot through with pine needles and twigs. He dropped to his knees, breathing deeply to try and dispel the pounding in his head. As he drank in the fresh country air he felt some of the anger at having been pulled from his kitchen ebb away though he could still taste the bitter resentment at Enjolras once again being granted the last word. How could an argument be fair if he was going to be temporally dislocated in the middle of it?  


Pulling some of the branches down, he peered into the meadow the other side of the treeline. There was the picnic blanket, spread out as usual, with the impossibly neat pile of clothes folded on one corner. And there was Enjolras. Hair resplendent, gleaming in the sunlight as he poured through the pages of a dense textbook and scribbled notes in an easy fluent script that Grantaire knew would be as neat and immaculate as the pile of clothes.  


He’d come a long way from trying to puzzle through the letters of his name, pencil pressing down firmer than necessary and tongue stuck out from concentration, which was where they’d been last time Grantaire had been pulled to the meadow. Grantaire was almost disappointed that he was faced with this older incarnation. He’d already had one headstrong Enjolras to deal with today, wasn’t that enough?  


“I know you’re here. Stop hiding,” Enjolras voice cut through the quiet without him looking up from his book.  


“Eyes closed,” Grantaire warned.  


Enjolras lifted an eyebrow, but dutifully closed his eyes, allowing Grantaire to scurry from the trees and scoop up the clothes. Turning his back to Enjolras he shimmed into the pair of brown corduroy trousers and green sweater that had once belonged to Enjolras’ father. It made a nice change from the holey sweatpants and fluorescent Hawaiian shirt that had been left out for him last time.  


Smoothing out the creases he turned round to find Enjolras unabashedly staring at him.  


“I told you, eyes closed,” he huffed, still reeling from his argument with other-Enjolras, and trying desperately not to snap at this younger version. It wasn’t his fault, not yet.  


“I closed them. And then I opened them again.” Enjolras said simply with a smile. That smile.  


Grantaire ground his teeth but said nothing. Slumping down on the picnic blanket instead. He stretched himself out, folding his arms behind his head and letting out a heavy sigh as he stared up at the endless blue.  


“Everything alright?”  


“Yeah, it’s fine…”  


“You don’t look fine.” Enjolras had always been blunt. But it was true. It was partly the reason they’d been in such a big fight. He was wearing about three days’ worth of stubble, his eyes were bruised with sleeplessness and he had a hangover that could kill a horse. Was that a saying? It sounded like it could have been.  


“It’s nothing.”  


Nothing, being that Enjolras had gone off to a rally, had been beaten bloodied and bruised and then refused to let Grantaire do anything about it. It was recurring fear, a nightmare that often plagued his restless nights, that Enjolras would come home broken beyond repair, or worse. That he wouldn’t come home at all. He was always so ready to give himself over to the cause he didn’t care what it would cost him – didn’t stop to think what it might cost those who held him dear. Seeing him walk through the front door, upside down from where Grantaire was lying inverted on the couch, head lolling over the armrest and socked feet kicked back against the wall, seeing the busies blossoming around his eyes, the neat little strip of tape across an obviously broke nose, a sling holding back what looked to have been a dislocated shoulder. Grantaire had slumped onto the floor, landing catlike on his hands and knees and simply stared aghast for a few never-ending seconds until he managed to push himself to his feet and walk over to Enjolras. But which time his golden god had sighed and begun to ascend the stairs. Grantaire followed with urgency, and caught him on the landing, wrapping a gentle hand around the bicep that wasn’t encased in a sling. He’d demanded to know what had happened, if Enjolras was alright, to know why he hadn’t bothered to call and tell him. Only to be given a blunt, “Sorry, it didn’t cross my mind.”  


Grantaire had blinked back the fury that was building, creating an uncomfortable pressure behind his temples, made sure that Enjolras was indeed alright, and that no he didn’t need to go to the hospital because he’d just come from there, before storming out to go and get blindingly drunk. Because fuck Enjolras. Fuck everything.  


It didn’t solve anything, the earth shattering argument which followed Grantaire’s return from his three day drunken revenge stint proved that. And Grantaire wasn’t particularly looking forward to round two, whenever he was eventually dissolved back into it.  


“Of course.”  


“Nothing that concerns _you_.” Grantaire huffed with finality.  


Enjolras halted his note taking to give Grantaire a look which seemed almost hurt.  


“It was just an argument,” he added, more softly, really trying to reign back his frustration and anger. This escape was a blessing really, not a curse. It gave him a chance to cool off, reflect; before either of them went did something really stupid.  


“With your…boyfriend?” the word came a little reluctantly from Enjolras’ mouth.  


“Hmm?” Grantaire had been distracted by an insect buzzing menacingly close to his nose. “Fiancé actually,” which was another whole stream of arguments in and of itself. Enjolras would have preferred not to buy into the capitalist socio-economic construct of marriage, which is partly why it was so appealing to Grantaire. “That antagonistic prick.” He chuckled.  


Sometimes he wondered why the universe he deigned to bring together two such contrasting people. He often speculated about what their lives might have been like without these encounters, these abrupt intrusions from Grantaire into Enjolras’ life. Would they still found each other? Or would Grantaire still be wasting his life Montparnasse, happily set on his road to self-destruction like he’d been before that beautiful blonde had stopped him on the steps of the library building and calmly informed him that he’d known Grantaire’s future self since childhood and proceeded to change his life. Grantaire was still undecided on whether or not it had been completely for the better.  


And Enjolras, where would he be? Probably off with some equally politically charged, deservingly wonderful creature who might elevate him to where he should rightfully be, instead of demeaning himself with Grantaire like he was now. Now, of course being a good ten years into the future. The Enjolras sat across from him on the picnic blanket was seventeen at most, and currently displaying an obscene pout of disappointment.  


“What?”  


“I just,” Enjolras shrugged and began taking notes with a ferocity that Grantaire hadn’t previously known was possible.  


He twisted onto his knees and crossed the space between them on the blanket.  


“What?” he pressed.  


Enjolras look up, scanning the tree line, the clouds, the bobbles that littered the old green sweater, before he finally brought his eyes to meet Grantaire’s.  


“I always thought, in the future, it might…” he breathed in, it was hitched, “be me,” he finished in a rush as he exhaled.  


Grantaire reached out to run his fingers under Enjolras’ jawline, which was still a shade softer and rounder than the perfection it would become, and smiled.  


“Who said it wasn’t?”


End file.
